with Peach Daiquiri) and righteous indignation. Her hair looked as though it had been styled with a weed whacker.
Wyatt hadn’t taken the time Katherine Feely Jones had encouraged him to take. He was an action man. He’d spent the three weeks since their meeting looking into less expensive adoption routes, like the state foster system. He’d stumbled across the Dad(s) Alone forum on the Web and decided to visit a meeting. He’d tried to blend into his folding chair, an unmemorable shade.
Fourteen other earnest men clutched paper cups and shifted in their uncomfortable plastic seats. No one wore name tags, so they were identifiable only by physical characteristics—Earring, Stain-on-Tie, Face Like a Hound Dog, Uncanny Resemblance to Jay Leno. Wyatt was reminded of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings he’d attended as a spectator. Former students, looking to get their lives back on track, would ask him to accompany them as they started the difficult journey to sobriety. Sometimes his presence helped and sometimes it didn’t, but Wyatt had spent many nights in smoky church basements, clutching bad coffee cut with powdered creamer, feeling helpless in the face of the stories.
At Dad(s) Alone, the similarities ended at the basement. It was smoke free, and guests sipped herbal tea, yet Wyatt felt the same sense of helplessness.
“Adoption agencies may discriminate against male-parent adoptions,” said Peach Daiquiri. “You have to work harder and be better. Things normal parents can get away with, you can’t.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “No smoking; no DUIs; no speeding tickets; no one-night stands; no porn; and I swear to god, even if you’re a jockey by profession, you’d better not have whips in your barn. Spying eyeballs will twist them into something nefarious. Don’t let your dog so much as think about taking a crap on someone else’s yard. If it’s not the adoption agency, it’ll be some ‘concerned citizen’ looking to take you down. Don’t let them. You have every bit as much of a right to raise a family as anyone else.”
“What possible justification can someone have against a loving couple providing a home for a child in need?” sputtered a ramrod-straight man with rapidly blinking eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. “ We saw a special about neglected children in Los Angeles, and immediately started the adoption process. It still took two years of jumping through hoops before we were approved to foster.” There was a smattering of claps. Wyatt paid attention.
Horn Rims’s outraged blinking escalated. “So there we were, like idiots, waiting for that call from the agency. Weeks went by, then months, and now almost a year. They even re-ran that special! And not so much as a single call!” He seemed ready to vibrate off the chair, a wooden soldier on a truck bed. His partner patted his back. “It’s outrageous—there are thousands of kids desperate for a good home.”
The circle of men nodded. Dapper, all, knit polos taut over biceps, military-short hair glinting with gel. Spacing between chairs indicated pairs—gaps between every other. Only Wyatt’s chair had space on both sides.
Peach Daiquiri sighed. “There’s still prejudice against men adopting. Some stems from fears of pedophilia. Some stems from prejudice against gays. And some is the traditional belief that a woman is the best caregiver for a child.”
Horn Rims was not appeased. His partner, by contrast, was soft spoken. “The strange thing to us was how we came to the adoption process with a lot of joy, as a first choice. Nearly all the straight couples came from a place of pain, a last resort. It seemed to us that we were better suited for parenting, that we had less baggage.”
Peach Daiquiri hesitated at the edge of the minefield. “There’s no better or worse qualification to parent,” she said slowly. “The decision to adopt puts everyone on equal footing in the most important qualification—wanting
Wyatt hadn’t taken the time Katherine Feely Jones had encouraged him to take. He was an action man. He’d spent the three weeks since their meeting looking into less expensive adoption routes, like the state foster system. He’d stumbled across the Dad(s) Alone forum on the Web and decided to visit a meeting. He’d tried to blend into his folding chair, an unmemorable shade.
Fourteen other earnest men clutched paper cups and shifted in their uncomfortable plastic seats. No one wore name tags, so they were identifiable only by physical characteristics—Earring, Stain-on-Tie, Face Like a Hound Dog, Uncanny Resemblance to Jay Leno. Wyatt was reminded of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings he’d attended as a spectator. Former students, looking to get their lives back on track, would ask him to accompany them as they started the difficult journey to sobriety. Sometimes his presence helped and sometimes it didn’t, but Wyatt had spent many nights in smoky church basements, clutching bad coffee cut with powdered creamer, feeling helpless in the face of the stories.
At Dad(s) Alone, the similarities ended at the basement. It was smoke free, and guests sipped herbal tea, yet Wyatt felt the same sense of helplessness.
“Adoption agencies may discriminate against male-parent adoptions,” said Peach Daiquiri. “You have to work harder and be better. Things normal parents can get away with, you can’t.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “No smoking; no DUIs; no speeding tickets; no one-night stands; no porn; and I swear to god, even if you’re a jockey by profession, you’d better not have whips in your barn. Spying eyeballs will twist them into something nefarious. Don’t let your dog so much as think about taking a crap on someone else’s yard. If it’s not the adoption agency, it’ll be some ‘concerned citizen’ looking to take you down. Don’t let them. You have every bit as much of a right to raise a family as anyone else.”
“What possible justification can someone have against a loving couple providing a home for a child in need?” sputtered a ramrod-straight man with rapidly blinking eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. “ We saw a special about neglected children in Los Angeles, and immediately started the adoption process. It still took two years of jumping through hoops before we were approved to foster.” There was a smattering of claps. Wyatt paid attention.
Horn Rims’s outraged blinking escalated. “So there we were, like idiots, waiting for that call from the agency. Weeks went by, then months, and now almost a year. They even re-ran that special! And not so much as a single call!” He seemed ready to vibrate off the chair, a wooden soldier on a truck bed. His partner patted his back. “It’s outrageous—there are thousands of kids desperate for a good home.”
The circle of men nodded. Dapper, all, knit polos taut over biceps, military-short hair glinting with gel. Spacing between chairs indicated pairs—gaps between every other. Only Wyatt’s chair had space on both sides.
Peach Daiquiri sighed. “There’s still prejudice against men adopting. Some stems from fears of pedophilia. Some stems from prejudice against gays. And some is the traditional belief that a woman is the best caregiver for a child.”
Horn Rims was not appeased. His partner, by contrast, was soft spoken. “The strange thing to us was how we came to the adoption process with a lot of joy, as a first choice. Nearly all the straight couples came from a place of pain, a last resort. It seemed to us that we were better suited for parenting, that we had less baggage.”
Peach Daiquiri hesitated at the edge of the minefield. “There’s no better or worse qualification to parent,” she said slowly. “The decision to adopt puts everyone on equal footing in the most important qualification—wanting
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